


Through Dark and Dangerous Paths

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: It was dark and dangerous in the forest with the Trees dead.Fingolfin thought it would have been better to let his nephews chase their father, but that had seemed fraught with too much danger.Perhaps this would solve some of their problems, if he could only get his half-brother to safety.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	Through Dark and Dangerous Paths

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a 100 words cuddling with the enemy prompt on FFA.
> 
> There is cuddling, in the end. It’s just literally down a dark path through the woods.

It was dark and dangerous in the forest with the Trees dead. 

Fingolfin knelt on the ground next to his half-brother and wondered if they would make it back to the city before more destruction came. Perhaps it would have been better to let his nephews chase their father, but that had seemed fraught with too much danger. 

“Fëanáro?” He spoke softly, hoping to not draw attention from anything else that may lurk in the woods now. “We must go elsewhere than this clearing. Your sons still need you, and I do not trust the dark.”

At first it seemed like his brother would not move, and Fingolfin was seized by the sudden certainty that he was kneeling by a corpse. Míriel’s spirit had fled her body, he recalled, and Fëanor had always seemed to be possessed by a certain restless spirit that had not come from their father. Perhaps Finwë had been the one to hold his half-brother’s spirit to his body, and with their father dead - 

“Fëanáro,” he called again, slightly louder and voice taut with nerves. 

He held his breath, and finally Fëanor moved. 

“My sons,” Fëanor muttered. 

“Yes,” Fingolfin said. His stomach roiled as he thought of what he would say next. “I would think you, of all of us, would not leave your children to seek the Halls.” 

“I do not seek the Halls.” Fëanor turned over, tear stains on his checks and his face slack from exhausted grief. 

Fingolfin noted the odd jerky movement of his half-brother’s limbs as he moved, at odds with his normal grace. His voice too seemed far shakier than normal, less present and commanding than normal. Fingolfin refused to note any more, not here in the woods where he could do nothing for his brother. 

“You are lying in a clearing in a forest unmoving, when darkness has fallen across Valinor and we do not yet know if those responsible have fled,” he answered. “If you do not seek the Halls, what do you seek?”

“Atar,” Fëanor muttered, pushing himself to his knees and then beginning to fall. 

Fingolfin felt as though his blood was frozen in the veins, but he managed to catch Fëanor and tuck his brother against his side. His brother felt frozen as well, cold sweat dried on his body. “Those are the same now.” 

Fëanor shook his head. “He cannot be gone like -”

He did not finish, but Fingolfin knew he meant Míriel. Everything in Fëanor’s life - and by extension, everything in the entire family’s lives, willingly or not - came back to his mother. 

“He will return to us,” Fingolfin said and willed it to be true, even as he feared the decisions his father would make in the dark of the Halls. “But we must be here for him to return to us, and I do not know these woods as well as you.”

It was another long moment before Fëanor moved, looking around and orienting himself with where he was. 

“There is a cave a quarter mile from here,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

Fingolfin rose as well. “Will we be safer there than here?”

“Likely. My sons know of it, and will likely check it before the rest of the forest, once it is safe to come look.” Fëanor’s words were slow and measured as he started to walk towards the cave.

Fingolfin hated every moment of the words and the walk, along with the slight tremble running through his half-brother’s body. Patting his pocket, he was glad to discover his fire starter was still in it. If they could reach the cave, he would have to hope there was enough wood nearby to start a fire. If he could get Fëanor warm, perhaps this would feel more like their lives and less like a nightmare he was stumbling through. If - 

It took longer than he expected to reach the cave, Fëanor stumbling and Fingolfin grabbing him as they both made their way past familiar shapes twisted by the new darkness.

When they had finally reached the cave, Fingolfin could have cried with relief at the small pile of wood near the entrance to the cave. 

He shoved Fëanor inside instead, taking off his own cloak and draping it around his half-brother’s shoulders. “Sit here. I will get the fire started.” 

Fëanor only nodded, as Fingolfin quickly lit a fire, coaxing it into life and trying not to draw parallels to the brother that he feared failing. 

“I had thought of you as my enemy for so long,” Fëanor muttered once Fingolfin sat back beside him.

Fingolfin suppressed his first reaction. And his second. Finally, when he thought he could speak without snapping or beginning a fight, he answered, “Had?”

“I - it seems pointless to be rivals for Atar’s love when he’s gone.” Fëanor’s face was still pale, but he had stopped trembling at least.

“We were never rivals in the first place,” Fingolfin said tiredly. “Do you love Makalaurë less than Curufinwë, because he is less like you? Or the Ambarussa more than Maitimo because they are younger? And even if we had been rivals, you would have won.”

“Nay, I love all my sons equally,” Fëanor’s voice still shook, even as his hands did not. “But I do not share your assurance that I would have won, when I already lost such a competition once.”

“Your mother did not die because she did not love you enough,” Fingolfin said.

“But she did not love me enough to return.” Fëanor stared into the flames.

Fingolfin considered continuing their discussion. He could point out the multitude of assumptions Fëanor had always made, or that their father had been willing to forsake his rule of Tirion and his other children to go into exile with Fëanor. 

Instead he placed an arm around his brother and pulled him closer. Fëanor still felt cold to the touch, even though he no longer shook. 

“Are you cuddling me?” Fëanor twisted his head, meeting Fingolfin’s eyes.

“Yes,” Fingolfin said. “If you really wish not to, I will let you go. But I am afraid for you, Fëanáro, and I do not wish to lose my brother right after my father.”

“Arafinwë is fine.” Fëanor did not pull away, in spite of his comment. 

“Arafinwë is not freezing beside me in a cave. And he is not my only full brother, at least in heart.” 

Fingolfin expected a new argument. 

Fëanor leaned against him instead. “My sons will be happy if we get along. Maitimo has missed Findekáno, and Tyelko and Curvo Irissë.” 

Fingolfin nodded. “My children will be as well.”

“When you first found me in the clearing, you seemed terrified when I first turned over,” Fëanor said after a few moments of silence. 

There was no way to explain without bringing back the ghosts of the past. Fingolfin tightened his grip ever so slightly before he explained. “You were not moving. I could not tell if you breathed. I visited the gardens once when I was a boy - I took a sewing needle for your mother, because someone told me you once wished she had been surrounded by more of the things she loved, and I thought perhaps to comfort you - and you reminded me too much of her.”

Fingolfin took a deep breath. He could not tell if he was the one trembling or Fëanor, but he had to continue. “I thought you had fled your body, and left us all behind for the Halls. That Atar was the only one holding you here, and without him, you were gone.”

Fëanor was quiet, but rubbed a small circle against the cloth covering Fingolfin’s arm until they had both calmed slightly. 

“I will not deny that there is some pull to the Halls,” he said. It was a dagger to Fingolfin’s chest worse than the sword to his throat had been. “But I will not willingly leave my children.”

“Good.” It was utterly inadequate and yet all Fingolfin could think of, other than pulling his brother even closer. 

“It is likely safe to sleep,” Fëanor said. “I shall not force you to let go of me, though I do hope you will let us lay down.”

Fingolfin took another breath, and somehow managed to move onto his side without releasing his grip. “Until we wake, brother.”

Fëanor nodded against his shoulder, before drifting off to sleep. 

Fingolfin stayed awake until he heard the trees start to whisper of Celegorm’s approach, and then he allowed himself to drift off as well for a few moment’s rest.


End file.
